


how not to open up to a therapist

by sybris



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Transcendence, Angst, Gen, Therapy, like yall theres some p major angst, tau ficathon whatup, this therapist is Donezos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 14:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8288639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybris/pseuds/sybris
Summary: Dipper/Alcor tries (read: is forced into) therapy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> its 4:31am on the 16 of october where i am and i am fucking dead
> 
> so anyways this is both not as well written and as long as i wanted it to be because i've been sick/in germany/jetlagged so not really much time or energy to do it but i did!!! and in time according to american time or whatever!!! aahahh!!!!!
> 
> anyways, this is for the tau second birthday ficathon!!!! i graciously took the prompt 'alcor goes to therapy' before anyone else could
> 
> enjoy!!!!
> 
> (btw s/o to dementor_ssc or flying-guinea-pig for helping me with this and for lending me her characters!! i love torturing these characters... favourite passtime 10/10)

There wasn’t a correct word to describe how much Dipper _loathed_ this situation.

His knee was bobbing. Probably wasn’t a good thing, considering how unstable his human façade was, but he bobbed it anyway, a soothing, rhythmic action. His fingers drummed against his bobbing knee, some random, improvised little jazz-ish tune, his free hand resting his head while his elbow sunk into the borderline ancient couch of the therapist’s office, and Dipper still searched in the depths of his omniscience for a word to adequately describe his loathing.

The therapist clicked her stylus. Like she was clicking away the seconds he purposefully wasted.

“So,” she took the time to drawl, her lips pursing around the ‘o’ and her eyes narrowing slightly at the clipboard on her knee, “Tyrone. Interesting name -”

“Thank you. I stole it from my clone.”

A flitting glance from behind thick-rimmed glasses. “Uh, yes.” She cleared her throat and clicked her stylus three and a half more times. “So, Tyrone, why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself?”

Dipper shifted. Made sure his body language told her how uncomfortable he was with talking about himself, and he punctuated this by clearing his own throat.

The therapist straightened, pen at the ready.

“Well,” he began, shifting more. “In West Philadelphia, I was born and raised. On the playground is where I spent most of my days. Chillin’ out, maxin’, relaxin’ all cool, and all shootin’ some b-ball outside the school-“

The timer rang out, rudely cutting Dipper off.

He’d never thought a therapist could seem relieved for a session to end.

“Alright,” she cried, standing up to her considerably short stature, her arms pulling her tablet to her chest. “Looks like we’re finished! See you next Friday?”

Dipper rose from the couch and moved towards the door, still facing her.

He didn’t say anything as he exited.

He just lazily finger gunned at her, letting the darkness of Thomas’s motherly glare embrace him.

* * *

 

The second session isn’t much better.

To start, Dipper still hadn’t found a good enough word that really encapsulates his hatred for how he was talked into these, which had been genuinely pissing him off since the first session, but Thomas had lectured him before this session on the way, telling him to “be on his best behaviour” and “stop messing around with the therapist or else I will kill you.”

Which, frankly, was ridiculous, but he couldn’t really say no to Thomas.

Not with the Mom Friend Hold he had on their group.

The therapist blew a small raspberry, leaning back in her chair, nails tapping against the screen of her tablet. She seemed to enjoy audibly ticking away the seconds he wasted each session like that.

Like she knew he would eventually crack.

And she did, it seemed.

He just wished he didn’t know that too.

* * *

 

_Despise_ seemed to be a pretty good word by the third session.

It was pretty much the only word that was running through his head, over and over to the beat of the therapist tapping her foot, her narrowed eyes watching him like he was a window, a piece of glass that she could see right through, an open book for her to read and decipher unnecessarily like an English teacher.

She glanced down at her tablet. Dipper turned his attention to the window.

“So, Tyrone,” the therapist began, moving to rest her chin on her hand. “What do you do for a living?”

Dipper tapped a finger on his leg. “I’m the President of the United States.”

“Do you have any siblings?”

“I have a clone. Several, actually.”

“What about your parents?”

“I live with four beavers and a convicted felon.”

“And your clones?”

Dipper stopped. Turned to the therapist with what he was sure was a peculiar expression. Cocked his head to the side slightly.

“Yes. In a horrific accident conducted by the convicted felon, each and every one of my clones turned into a beaver.”

“Oh,” the therapist said, leaning back with her hands clasped in her lap. She’d stopped tapping her foot. “I see. How do they cope with being beavers?”

Dipper only answered her with the universal noise of “I dunno.”

He leaned forward, taking on the position she began with. “So, why don’t _you_ tell me more about _your_ self?” He asked, batting his eyelashes in a less than innocent fashion.

The therapist seemed slightly taken aback.

“I don’t think you’re under any obligation to ask me that. Especially considering how difficult you’ve been with telling me about you.” She said. She didn’t seem happy, but rather, amused.

Dipper huffed. Leaned back in his seat and continued to stare out the window.

“What are your interests?”

Her question was left to stew in the silence.

* * *

 

“So, how’ve your therapy sessions been?”

Thomas’s question forced Dipper to stop the motion of putting cereal in his mouth. He straightened in his chair, lowering his spoon, his eyes burning holes into the top of Thomas’s head with how focused they were.

Thomas himself looked up from his toast.

He cocked an eyebrow.

“I still don’t understand why I have to go.” Dipper finally answered, shoving the head of his spoon in his mouth, almost spitting out the milk pooled in his mouth at the way Thomas’s face dropped.

Thomas sighed through his nose and ran his free hand down his face. He quietly set his half eaten piece of toast back down onto his plate.

“Tyrone.” He said, punctuating the name with a pinch to the bridge of his nose. “Alcor. Whatever. You have to go to therapy because you _need it._ ”

Thomas’s face softened.

_Uh oh._

“You seriously need it, Tyrone. You have some serious issues that you need to work out.”

Dipper opened his mouth to protest, but quickly shut it when Thomas silenced him with a glare.

“You know I’m right.”

And he did. He _did_ know that Thomas was right. He was one thousand percent correct, but that didn’t mean he wanted to go to _therapy._

He made sure to voice this.

“Well, I don’t care what you think, you’re the one who needs to go to therapy!” Another sigh, long and the kind that would definitely turn into a groan if it were through his mouth. “Look, Tyrone, you seriously, _seriously need_ this therapy. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that particularly awful ‘info dump’ you had a while ago.”

Not for the first time in his unfairly long life, Dipper saw a mix of genuine concern and fear in Thomas’s eyes.

“It was scary, man. It’s not fun to see your friends like that.”

Dipper shifted.

“And it’s less fun when they won’t understand or… or accept that they need help.”

Something in him snapped.

He wasn’t sure what it was. It was sudden, hitting him unexpectedly, but suddenly, Dipper was angry. Really angry. It felt like his stomach was physically burning with anger, his skin crawling with goose bumps, shivers rattling his spine as bitterness ripped through his body.

He lifted his head to meet Thomas’s eyes. Something told him his own eyes weren’t as human as he would’ve hoped.

“Well,” he began, voice oddly calm inside the waves of rage coiling around his throat. “What do you expect me to say?”

He gestured at Thomas with his spoon. It was a little limp.

“Do you want me to pour my entire life story out to you? Do you want to hear me tell you all the shit I’ve been bottling up for thousands of years? Or would you rather hear me say what you expect me to say?”

He knew he was standing. He knew his claws were creating dents in the table.

“Well, here’s all my shit, laid out on the table! I became a demon when I was twelve years old when the demon that had been haunting and terrorising me and my entire family decided it’d be a grand old idea to start the fucking apocalypse, but when that idea went to shit, he had the even better idea of fusing with a wimp of a twelve year old! I had to live most of my first hundred years being only visible to my human twin sister, who, lucky me, I got to watch grow old and eventually die! Fucking jackpot!”

The table wasn’t in his way anymore. It was wedged in one of the kitchen cabinets and a quarter of the oven.

“And as if it couldn’t get any better, I was shunned by my own parents for being a monster! Sure, they never said those exact words – how _merciful_ – but it was very much implied! But not only that, my sister was essentially shunned because of me, too! So we had to move all the way back from California to the **_lovely_** Gravity Falls, where I was constantly forced to relive traumatic memories of just _what_ had occurred there! Wasn’t bad enough that my _illusion of a body_ was a constant reminder, no siree, we had to move back to where it had all started!

But that’s okay, because being there also meant that I was constantly surrounded by people who I had to watch die, too! As if my sister wasn’t enough, right? Ohhh no, I had to be surrounded by an entire fucking _town_ of loved ones! A whole town of people who I get to watch grow old and die while I remain immortal and perpetually twelve in a body that I still, at like a thousand and forty seven years old or however fucking old I am, don’t understand, in a body that continues to grow more powerful than I can handle, but y’know, no problem there!”

His skin was flashing. He could see it in the corner of his eyes. It was flashing from black to pale, nothingness to human pink, the flashing growing worse and worse as he gesticulated wildly.

“Oh, oh, and my favourite part? The real kicker? The fucking cherry on top?”

He may be laughing hysterically.

“I get to watch them all be reincarnated into people who I eventually become friends with!”

The laughing may have dissolved into sobs a few moments after that final sentence.

Dipper felt as he dropped to his knees, his body curling in on itself, fingers in his hair and skin morphing into the void-black-and-gold-laced nothingness it went occasionally. Golden, glittering tears ran down his cheeks, dripping from his chin as his entire body heaved with hiccups.

Thomas just watched on.

Eventually, he brought his hand down onto Dipper’s shoulder, eliciting a sharp jerk of a reaction that made Thomas wince slightly. Slowly, he pulled Dipper up into a standing position, his hands still on his shoulders, and he took in his friend’s appearance; his gleaming tears, his endlessly black skin, the gold lines sliding across his body that matched the tears, the fearful expression on his face, and Thomas couldn’t hold back the pang of sympathy and concern that shot through his Mom Friend Heart.

He opened his mouth. Shut it. Opened it again, the process repeating a few times as he gathered his words.

“Look,” Thomas began, voice shaking and gaze darting away from Dipper himself. “I… I think this is why I wanted you to go to therapy.”

Dipper’s face contorted briefly into an expression of offended rage, and Thomas was quick to try to justify himself.

“Look, that right there was a big, steaming pile of shit that I think you seriously need to get sorted. And it’s not going to get any better on its own.”

Dipper looked down. Twiddled his thumbs.

“So,” he dragged out the syllable in a sing-song way. “How about next session, you actually try? It’s like, you’re last free session. Might as well.”

Dipper could only get out of a shuddering, choking chuckle.

That was okay.

Thomas liked silence anyway.

* * *

 

Dipper had decided that **despise** was the perfect word to describe his hatred for this situation.

The therapist – Judith, her name was – clicked her stylus, silently counting down the seconds he wasted. They were almost finished for the day, if the clock was anything to go by, and Dipper had never been simultaneously relieved and terrified in his life.

… Okay, so he had _once,_ about a thousand and thirty five years ago, give or take, but Judith didn’t have to know that.

Judith sighed and leaned back in her chair, still clicking her stylus away, and Dipper found himself drumming his fingers in time with it on his leg. _Click. Click. Click._

There wasn’t much longer now. Only a couple more minutes, and he was still wasting precious clicks.

He shifted. Straightened. Cleared his throat in the one hundred and sixty third biggest _now or never_ he’d ever experienced.

Judith’s eyes came up to meet his.

He inhaled, physically breathing in courage, and hesitated.

“… I had a sister.”

**Author's Note:**

> welp, yall know the drill. here's my [tumblr!](pedoseidon.tumblr.com) love it, cherish it, send it anon hate


End file.
